Chapter One
July 1813 Devonshire, England
The velvet fog engulfed Isadel Armijo, swallowing her whole like lump of brown bread drowning in white soup. She flinched at a noise from behind. She pulled on the reigns of her stolen horse and swiveled in the saddle to see if she was followed.
Nothing.
Nothing but night was behind her. And nothing would be for her if she didn't keep moving. Bundled up in Papa’s old coat and breeches, she was still just a female alone, but one on the greatest adventure. One of honor. Well, that's what she told herself when she snuck away from Hartland Abbey.
She kicked her mount forward. The thick fog closed in. Isadel couldn't see, couldn't breathe, couldn't feel anything but heaviness as if she'd be dragged down at any moment. She swatted the air with her straw hat as she had from the boat deck the eve she immigrated from Spain. The half-done thing had been scooped up from a blocking tool of a neighbor’s burnt out workshop. The lady spy had slapped it upon her head as she made Isadel flee Badajoz.
If Isadel closed her eyes and thought hard of that night, she’d smell the soot that consumed her city. If there was a God, then he should let black powder smell the same. Then this hat would be a crown ordaining her destiny.
A branch slapped her cheek. The horse must've veered to left and into the woods. Fear swept through her. What if this wasn’t the way to Bannerman, but to another of Lord Wellington’s spies? None of them had the skills she needed. Bannerman was the one, the only one up to the task and the only one who hated her enemy as much as Isadel.
Clinging closer to the horse's neck, she had to trust the beast knew the way. Trust—that word made her raw nerves snap like uncooked fidelli noodles, but this past year, she learned that her employer, Lord Hartland, was friended by men of precision, those set to provide justice. Who else needed it more than Isadel? Who else had lost as much?
Her mottled colored mount whinnied but kept moving forward into the thickets. The night had grown dark again. She could barely see and hoped this gelding could navigate its way like the boat captain that spy woman, Joanna Perkins, had bribed. The captain slipped through the low salty clouds of the Bay of Biscay as if he possessed an inner compass guiding him toward the North Star. Isadel understood, for her inner compass aimed solely at vengeance.
The animal lurched then started to the right again. She stilled her fingers on the smooth leather strap of its reign. Humming her mother's tune, the one that timed her whisking the strokes to perfection, didn't distract the horse. It began moving faster down a steep incline. When they reached the bottom, the clouds parted. She could see again and witnessed moonlight kissing the white stones lining the trail. It was the first light she'd seen since leaving the Abbey at sundown.
When the housekeeper discovered her missing, the old battle ax would screech that “the half-breed” done run off. This this time the old woman's fear of Isadel's kind being evil or a thief would be true.
Stomach souring, she slapped the reigns between her palms. These hands were meant for making pastries, forming biscuits, for stirring delicate sauces, not unlocking doors and unfurling the stocks keeping a horse stabled. Yet, her finger tips had grown tired of wiping midnight tears. If she did nothing, her gift of pastries and breads would feed her enemy, the man who had destroyed her world. Moldona would come to the Abbey at month's end.
Deflating in her saddle like a cake that fell from too much checking, she threw her arms tighter around her mount's neck and clung to it as if it were her father. With a breath, gulping in the strong horse lather, she sat up straight and dared her eyes to grow wet. A woman destined to kill shouldn't be weepy. That was a victim's plight, and she refused to wear that crown anymore. Her greatest wish must come true. She'd risked everything to make things right, her spotless reputation and her safe employment for a man who made sure his staff treated her fairly. The earl’s disappointment in her character would kill her faster than the lashings he could demand to punish a horse thief. If he exercised rights like the wealty hacendia owners in Spain, he’d ask for a hanging.
Too late to turn back, not that she wanted to, she kept on, urging the horse saying, “To Bann-er-man, horse. To Ba-nner-man.”
Another hour of hard riding and the smell of the sea, fresh and salty, seemed stronger. Soon, she should be able to see Sandon Manor, the castle hiding the reclusive spy. Fingers vibrating, she swiped at her mouth dabbing at the fresh blood coming from the corner. She'd bit down with the last jostle of the horse. How horrid she must look, probably seeming more like a lost urchin than a cook. She couldn't wear her neat uniform and keep her seat, and who needed to fret about getting creases upon her starched apron while stealing away? Riding like a man, in men's breeches just looked easy. It wasn't. It was quite hard for someone with short legs. Papa would say she was barely enough stones in weight to fill a messenger's saddlebag.
Patting the horse, she gave him a moment to catch his breath. She needed let her pulse slow and leaned back, gazing at the rocky incline ahead of her. It stretched high, sticking into the clouds headless as if it had been axed like a roasting chicken. Her stomach rumbled and all she could think of was how odd it was now to remember being hungry. Did they feed prisoners in English jails? Maybe they'd shoot first and ask questions later like the British soldiers had done at Badajoz.
Righteous anger welled inside her growling gut, but so did a little teaspoon of hope. With a click of her heels, she urged the gelding forward. If the horse had done its job, she'd see Sandon from the top. Then she'd know that she'd stolen the right horse, that she'd come to right place. She'd have a chance to no longer live with hate. “Go to Ba-nner-man.”
Gravel flew on every side. Isadel became breathless. The final push through the fog made her heart flip against her ribs and stay there. The pounding in her chest hurt so badly her ribs would surely poke through her coarse nankeen shirt. Papa's shirt. Bracing in the saddle, Isadel held on as her mount leapt above the clouds to the top, a flat plateau lidding the hill.
Quiet surrounded her and she tugged at the reigns, stopping the horse. The air smelled clean and sweet like after the rain. The salt, it burned her nostrils, only because she breathed so hard. Yet maybe it cleansed. If there was a heaven, this had to be it—quiet, pure, sweet —unseeing of the horrors below, untouched by the death of innocence—the scream of a sister, the unanswered begging prayer of Papa.
Clouds swirled and for a moment, then opened and showed things—tree groves, the waters of the Bristol Channel. Joy leaped inside. They’d made it to the coast. Sandon had to be near. The tired part of her wanted to linger in this peace, but to stay in heaven was to deny the hell she'd lived. Morning meant discovery of her theft, no new mercies, no more chances. She steered the horse to the edge. The wind picked up again, spreading the fog, making it thin in spots. The gaps appeared like the insides of white Emmental cheese.
With wide eyes, she beheld the sight she'd seen from the boat smuggling her to these shores, the high turret of Sandon Manor. It was again alone in the night sky just as it had been nine months ago. With her finger, she traced the structure down to the rest of the castle which lay shrouded by trees. The turret looked daunting, almost whispering “don't reach for me,” but Isadel had to. She gripped the reign tighter and became deaf to the warning. She risked too much to turn back now. Bannerman had to see her. He had to help.
With a gulp, she hunkered down and pressed forward. The horse flew down the hill, galloping faster, sinking deeper into the steamy fog. They moved as one, splashing through mud puddles. She blocked low branches with her hand and ducked under tree limbs. The horse knew the path, slipping through openings that didn't seem to exist. It trotted, weaving and threading through the dense blanket of leaves. The horse stopped on the castle's rock-strewn drive.
Isadel sized up the worn door, the overgrowth of vines hugging the limestone brick. That sense of being alone, of not wanting to bear the company of others, closed in upon her, but she welcomed it and pushed it into her heart. Nothing alleviated her misery more than the isolation of not explaining, of not searching for ways to fit into this very English world. Emboldened, she jump down and walked with her chin up to the door.
It took three knocks, three shifts in her stance, three stampings of her short boots, before the door opened. A grizzled man with a lantern and a balding head glared at her. "We've no use for beggars, boy."
Boy? She surely must look like one with her hair pulled up in her hat. Yet, being thought a man might serve her. "Sir." She coughed and deepened her hoarse voice. “I'm no beggar. I'm a cook…chef."
"Don't need one of those either."
A thief and want-to-be-murderer had no room for shame. Shoving all the pride she had left into her spine, she stood up straight, probably exposing her ankles from her father's old breeches. He wasn’t that tall either. "I bring a message for your employer, Ba-nner-man."
The man wriggled his hooked nose. "Jump on your horse and leave, cook-chef. Take it with you."
She curled her tongue and tried that long name again in what she hoped sounded clipped, very English. "I'm here for Mr. Bannerman." She kept her voice even, making sure no hitch of feminine desperation could be heard. "It's a matter of death."
Brow furrowing with more crevices, the fellow pulled a knife from his pocket, waving it as if to intimidate her, but she'd skinned too many chickens for that. "So you're looking for him? You'll have to kill me to get to him."
Kill this man? He needed to know her private thoughts of murder had nothing to do with his master; well not really. She raised hands and shook her head. "Not here for that."
"Then what, boy? Why did you come?"
Like Papa, she spread her feet apart and tried to seem rooted and certain. "Your master is safe from me. And he'll see me. I come from Lord Hartland." She let her gaze lift to the grand stairs behind the gatekeeper. "Is Bannerman in the tower? I can run up there and deliver the message."
Happy her tone sounded clear, she pushed inside, but the old fellow stepped in her path.
"I said no visitors."
She was too close to lose out now. Fumbling with Papa's coat, she produced the letter and fluttered it, exposing the earl's wax mark. "Tell the master that I have a letter from Hartland. He has to see this."
He held out his palm, but there was no way Isadel would give him the letter. She couldn't, not without an audience with the explosives expert. "I must only offer this to Bannerman."
After sixty beats of her heart, the man nodded his thin pointy chin and waved her further inside. "You don't look like an assassin."
Assassin? Isadel wanted to be one, just not for Bannerman. "I'm a messenger, today."
"Scrawny you. Yes, that's what Hartland would send. No turret for you, boy, but the drawing room. Easier for you to make your delivery then go."
So, Bannerman was up there. Did he enjoy the air, the hazy night sky, that feeling of being on top of the world?
Before her longing for peace drove her up those stairs, she focused on the old man and traipsed behind him. Trying hard not to stare at the holes in the wall, the torn tapestries, she focused on what to say to Bannerman. Yet, the melon-sized holes, the broken lath and plaster sent a tremor to her middle. What could have done it? Who would dare destroy the gilded trim, the papered orange walls? This place was nothing like the earl's beautiful Abbey.
The butler turned to her, and she dropped her gaze. She wasn't here to assess the housekeeping. This destruction was none of her business.
The fellow stopped at a door half-off its hinges. He pressed it open and waved her inside. "Wait in here. Make sure the brass doorknobs and books remain."
Without protest, Isadel nodded. What the old man thought of her meant nothing, just like the insults of her employer's staff. Talk was cheap, and it couldn't kill a soul that had already died from sorrow. Every hope she ever possessed went away with her father and sister's murder at the hands of British pigs. The only thing worth anything to Isadel was revenge.
The door shut behind her with a thud. How it managed to stay upright was a wonder. The room was cold and grey. A fire seemed to be dying. Someone had left it to wither. Bannerman? He couldn't be in the turret and here, too. Maybe the rumors of him dying and becoming a ghost were true, but then why would Lord Hartland keep sending him notes?
She rubbed at her forehead. A hint of oak and tobacco hit her nose as she walked closer to the desk. That one time she made Bannerman tea, he had sat in Hartland's library with a pile of books about ancient medicine at his feet as he’d puffed on a pipe. Reading shad eemed to ease his restlessness.
Her skin prickled as she took another deep inhale and prepared to see the big hulk of a man again. The right words to get him to agree to return to the Abbey and help her kill her enemy hadn't materialized.
Her stomach soured, rolling in her famished middle. She hadn't thought this part out enough. Pacing from the large patio door to a book-laden desk, she tried to number her arguments. She stopped and fingered an open tome upon the smooth maple writing surface. A recipe for skin lotion made with arsenic dotted the page.. That’s not very good. Papa had warned her and her sister about the horrible practices women used to lighten their skin.
With a shake of her head she stepped back, then loosened a button of her bulky jacket and fanned her head with her hat. Her nerves had her heart racing again. She shoved the hat back on, scooping up a thick curl that had come loose. Her resolve of not caring what she looked like, or even that she favored a boy, began to slip. She would see the fastidious Bannerman again as a wrinkled frog.
Maybe like a genie or handsome prince, he'd grant her wish. She didn’t need a kiss to break a curse, but craved a black powder recipe which would make beastly Moldona disappear.
The door behind her blew open, making the rush of air rattle pages. The shock of it hitting the wall made her duck as if avoiding gunshot or a cannon’s fire. She bit her lip and spun. A huge man barreled toward her. "Bannerman?"
"Yes. It's good to know the name of the man who will kill you."
Dark golden hair covered his face like thick lion fur. The wavy locks that had been parted to perfection were gone, replaced by wild curls. He looked like a beast, a large, hulking beast.
She stepped to toward the door, but he flung a poker in her direction. It whizzed passed her head, missing her temple by an inch. With a thunk, it sunk into the wall. "I didn't say you could go."
A gasp left her, but then she caught his hazel eyes, the ones she’d spied at the Abbey, the ones that lit in laughter to Lord Hartland’s jests. Wellington’s explosives expert stood in front of her. "Bannerman, sir, it is you?"
He swiped at his mane. "How dare Hartland send someone for me again. I'm done."
Stomping toward his desk, he kicked an emerald chair, sending it sliding across the scarred mahogany floor. It stopped an inch from her boot, but she stood still and stared at him.
As if filled with remorse, he rubbed a gloved hand over his face then pivoted toward the hearth. "Boy, what favor does he want? Or does he send news? Has he found the Almeida killer."
More confused at the changes in the once-well-groomed man she'd seen a few months ago than by his gibberish about Almeida, she pitched her head side to side. "I’m not sure if his note has more news of a two-year old bloodbath that savaged my Spanish lands. But I know he wants you to return with me."
"No! Hart will not order me around. Nor will one of his foot soldiers."
His voice felt like thunder. His shaking fist would surely hit with a punch of lightning, but she still held the note out to him.
"I swore to him I'd kill the next messenger who came to me." Bannerman flexed his gloved fingers. "I guess you're the lucky one he chose to die."
Death didn't scare Isadel any more than living with regrets. She folded her arms about her. "I've always been lucky like that."
"I'll give it to Hartland. He knew how much the former me liked a good joke. But a dead man has no room for laughter or more guilt. Return to Hart and tell him no."
She stamped her foot like a girl, but hardened her voice. "Do your worst, or return with me to Hartland Abbey. No middle ground."
He came near. She could smell the stench of metal coming from his arm or his hand—so like her father's apothecary shop. His arms flexed as he hovered. He was large, larger than she remembered, but as a good servant, she'd never been this near to him.
His scent, ferrous or sulfur, strangled. "No one gives me ultimatums."
If this was the end, part of her was glad of it. Straightening her spine, she held her breath and waited to be throttled, waited for darkness to overcome her when he choked the air from her throat betwixt his large hands. That had to be a better fate than going to prison or living with the knowledge she'd failed at her once chance to kill her enemy.
*** End of excerpt No Hiding for the Guilty (The Heart of a Hero Series) by Vanessa Riley ***